


What Spoils the Spoil

by HimsaAhimsa



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, M/M, Money Shot, Non-Consensual Touching, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29657115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HimsaAhimsa/pseuds/HimsaAhimsa
Summary: All of Walt’s senses feel magnified, set to high resolution as he luxuriates in this delicacy that he’s craved for so long, hyper-aware of each and every facet of bliss within the exchange.
Relationships: Jesse Pinkman/Walter White
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	What Spoils the Spoil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Porkchop_Sandwiches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porkchop_Sandwiches/gifts).



> This scene unfolded in my mind when I scrolled by a post by lizwontcry on tumblr, in which she had written a Walt/Jesse vampire ficlet in response to a prompt. I thought this could serve as a partial backstory, or a pre-backstory, of sorts. 
> 
> This is for Porkchop_Sandwiches, in gratitude for her beta work on much of my fic in this fandom thus far. Thank you so much!
> 
> It's just your typical vampire trope, but I had to write it out of my head. 
> 
> Thank you to Sylvestris for the beta on this fic, so I could surprise Porkchop_Sandwiches. You rock! <3

_Circa 2007_

The hunger has arisen. 

Staved off for nearly a year now, by the distraction of marriage, parenthood and work, it beckons now, with a ferocity that won’t be denied, and Walt plans to heed its call.

Slipping out of the house proves easier than expected, thanks to a necessity for groceries and Junior’s reliance on his mother’s help with an English paper. Walt knows his presence won’t be missed, even if he’s gone longer than expected. Skyler will drink her wine and read her romance novel after tutoring their son; might even slide into the tub, and Walt wouldn’t be surprised if she masturbates furiously in substitution for their almost non-existent sex life as of late.

He backs out of the driveway and heads for the main drag. He knows just where to go for the ripest fruit that will go the least missed: a dive on the opposite end of town that attracts a young crowd—one rougher than good college kids tend to prefer, and farther than they tend to travel. The alley in back provides obscurity in spades, even within mere feet of the lone bulb above the back door, and Walt waits, cocooned in the shadows, for his opportunity. 

It’s not long until the door swings open, dispensing several young males, all erupting with hilarity, whooping and wheezing over the din of clinking glasses and the drone of partygoers, until the door falls shut, canceling it out.

“Okay, let’s have it,” an oafish boy goads to the shushes of his thinner counterpart, and the runt of the lot reaches into his front pocket, retrieving something of interest to the others, judging by the rumbles and expletives of approval as he unfurls it. 

“This here’s my own Chili P recipe, yo,” the runt boasts, as the other two crowd in further. The voice is immediately familiar: a scratchy tenor with a tendency to hug the vowels. Before Walt can place it or contemplate it further, the boys draw what resembles short drinking straws from their pockets, and their heads dip down toward the runt’s prize. 

Disgust hits Walt at the nature of their activities: the consumption of illicit drugs. It irritates him—their blatant disregard for the bar-owner’s property and the potential liability they pose to said proprietor, but also the lack of respect they show their own bodies and minds; the waste of time and effort that teachers, such as himself, invested in such kids, just to watch them throw it all away in favor of destroying their lives and wrecking the lives of those around them. 

But such is the nature of those he pursues, he reminds himself, and his irritation recedes to resignation as his appetence once again takes precedence, belly rumbling, mouth salivating in anticipation as he strides into the light.

The boys startle at Walt’s sudden presence. Uncertain of his agenda, wary of discovery, they scramble to conceal their goods, mouths working with excuses, insults and threats, but the issuance of Walt’s growl, far deeper in timbre than any human could produce, stuns them to silence, and horror wells in their eyes as his own project their ethereal glow, the threat clearly dawning in the three young faces.

Walt’s clipped march toward them sets the oafish one running off to the mouth of the alley, stumbling into a stack of crates as he makes his escape, while the other two raise their hands in surrender, their drugs and paraphernalia abandoned like so much refuse as Walt draws nearer, his footsteps echoing off of the walls.

The boys’ hands tremble, and Walt can feel the older one raring to flee—he can smell his adrenaline and the tang of his sweat the moment before he tenses and bolts, his long legs carrying him off in swift flight. 

And thus, his prey is chosen: the runt, naturally, as Darwin had evidenced, and as Walt, as a predator tends to find as true, quivers in stunned paralysis against the wall as Walt closes the gap between them. The boy’s eyes go impossibly wide, laying bare his terror for Walt to devour, along with the last of his malty-sweet breaths, chest heaving with his ragged gasps.

But Walt isn’t a monster.

Though it’s his instinct to hunt, to pursue and delight in the kill and the feast, he never lets his quarry suffer long in fear. With a gentle touch, Walt cradles the youth’s face, fingertips brushing the edges of the beanie molded over his head and the tips of his ears, the bristle of fine, adolescent stubble at his jaw prickling at Walt’s thumbs. He penetrates the boy’s gaze, administers his hypnotic drug, and the boy is helpless to look away. Slight of body and susceptible of mind, he goes under quickly—face softening, pupils fully dilating with the balm of Walt’s spell. 

Malleable under his control, the boy doesn’t resist as Walt guides his arms to his sides, unzips his jacket and rips open the neck of his t-shirt, the soft fabric yielding easily under preternatural force. 

The boy’s jugular thrums, calling to Walt despite itself, beating out a mantra to take him, _now_ , but the delicate lines of sinew under tender young flesh ignite a fire in Walt that he doesn’t want to temper prematurely. The ritual of the game returns to him—reawakens with every ripple of the boy’s bodily response, and he refuses to rush the process.

He makes short work of the remaining garment, tearing and flaying the split panels open to expose the boy from neck to waist. The hair on his chest is sparse, as befitting of a young man, nipples tight with the chill of the night air, and Walt regards the taut body, the flat planes of hard muscle, defined but not yet filled in, with skin so fair it’s almost self-sacrificial; his vascular system mapped out so plainly underneath, it seems to exist solely for Walt’s benefit.

It’s been so long, and he intends to wait as long again for his next indulgence. Such is his justification when his fingers trace the soft skin of the boy’s clavicle and his thumbs brush hardened nipples. It elicits a moan from the boy—hardly more than a gust of breath, but totally uninhibited in its sensuality, unaware, though he is, of anything save the pleasure Walt has him steeped in. 

Feasibly a virgin, but no more than a novice to sexual experience, judging by the boy’s rapid state of excitement, he’s already primed, the clear line of his arousal prominent through his clothing. Walt allows himself another moment’s perusal before he unties the drawstring at the kid’s waistband and watches his pants fall and crumple around his thighs; runs a fingertip up his engorged genitalia, from taint to tip, through the fluid the boy has already yielded in the ecstasy of his own impending homicide.

Walt’s pulse accelerates as he regards the boy splayed in ready submission before him, unwitting, yet eager for climax all the same, even in the face of such danger—in the face of death itself. It exhilarates Walt so thoroughly to finally wield his power again that he can no longer wait.

He tilts the boy’s head back, supporting it easily in a palm to expose his neck and leans in, teeth piercing the tender skin beneath his jaw. Blood surges into Walt’s waiting mouth, the flavors of copper and something pleasantly saccharine and unique to this particular boy exploding over his tongue, and Walt praises the stars above and God—or whatever controls this glorious fate—that he’d caught the boys out before they’d ingested that filth that would’ve otherwise tainted this boy’s natural piquancy. 

All of Walt’s senses feel magnified, set to high resolution as he luxuriates in this delicacy that he’s craved for so long, hyper-aware of each and every facet of bliss within the exchange: the opened vein pulsing around his canines in time with the boy’s heartbeat softly thumping in his ears; the erection throbbing eagerly against Walt’s thigh. 

This boy is a tonic to Walt in this moment; his life’s blood gushes forth at Walt’s whim, and Walt, in turn, delivers a high beyond compare, until the moment that Walt will whisk him away to a rapturous death.

He drinks greedily, sucking with abandon, demanding more, faster than the young body can serve him, until the boy’s muscles tense and he arches back within the clasp of Walt’s arms, his flavor changing slightly with the release of his endorphins. A stuttering breath heralds the boy’s orgasm, and Walt pulls free to watch him ejaculate, sac pulled tight as he pulses hard for long moments, spurting his release into the secrecy of darkness that shrouds them. He’s a sight to behold, loose and passive for further consumption, and Walt’s gaze travels the boy’s torso, glistening in the low light, in search for the next source to sample. 

The bluish vein alongside a jutted hipbone calls to him and he drops to his knees, pinning the boy against the wall with a hand stronger than it appears to tongue the skin there; to taste the culmination of his ministrations—the saltiness mixed with cold sweat before they give way to soapy clean skin, and finally, the boy’s essence underneath, which tastes of damp earth and falling rain. 

Walt presses his lips there, knowing just how the skin will resist him as he bares his teeth and sinks them in, flesh popping as it gives way, the sound of the twin punctures inaudible to human ears, but a delight to Walt’s own.

The boy recoils at the intrusion, clearly starting to feel pain, but he has nowhere to go but through Walt or the brick façade of the building. He pushes at Walt uselessly, head and shoulders slumped forward, unable to right himself or struggle further with the loss of his faculties and Walt’s inescapable hand binding him to the wall. He’s a fast metabolizer, Walt realizes, and he vacillates between sending the boy under further or rushing to finish him off. Neither option appeals to him, so he continues drinking, digging his teeth in harder with his irritation. 

The boy grunts in discomfort, his throaty protest conveying his growing agitation and pain, and though Walt could easily work past such vexation, the sound triggers a memory—the association of the boy’s voice finally slotting into its rightful place, jarring and unnerving:

 _Pinkman_. 

He withdraws in haste, seals the wounds with his tongue. The boy squirms listlessly against Walt’s hold, the toes of his sneakers scraping the pavement in a vain attempt to gain traction, and Walt studies him frantically, hoping to find some fault in his recognition. 

He can’t place the tattoo creeping over the boy’s wrist, half hidden beneath the cuff of his sweatshirt, and nothing about his clothing in general connects him to the boy who once sat in the back of Walt’s classroom. But when Walt rises, tugs the beanie from the boy’s head, tufts of soft, unruly hair stand up on end, the honeyed strands all too familiar. 

Walt grasps the boy’s face, hauls him under the scant light, but it’s enough to confirm his identity. Even with his eyes half-lidded and a smattering of meager stubble, Walt can’t deny that the petite nose and shapely brows, combined with the boy’s small stature, complete the physical makeup of Jesse Pinkman, graduate of J.P. Wynn, class of 2002, and one of Walt’s own chemistry students.

There are only so many people in the world one can know, Walt thinks, even as an immortal, and he’s never before made the mistake of claiming one. But even through shock, it doesn’t surprise him that the person who might end that streak for him would be someone like Jesse Pinkman. For the duration of the entire schoolyear, Walt had tried to teach, encourage, persuade and finally threaten information into his most resistant of charges, who would rather have drawn, joked, slept or otherwise jerked off to his instruction. And though he had told himself at the end of the year that he would prefer the boy’s absence in his classroom to a glaring reminder of his failure to make the kid grasp even the most basic of chemical concepts, the disappointment receded but never really left him, because Jesse had been a good kid, and likely smarter than he chose to believe or let on. 

Though misguided, Pinkman’s flippant act only went so far, and Walt had observed enough examples of the boy’s goodwill when he thought no one was looking, from giving his lunch money away to standing up to kids twice his size on another’s behalf, to know that the kid had been raised in a well-mannered, well-intending home, despite whatever obvious fallouts had occurred between parents and child.

Jesse’s rebellion seems to have endured since then, but Walt would bet his right arm that underneath, the kid’s virtue has, too.

He calls back upon those stars again now to guide him out of this situation—this tryst turned tragedy—and damns his own sharp mind, which will remember violating his student and breaching the sacred role of teacher to protect and nurture for all eternity. 

Exposed to the cold night air, drained critically as he is, Jesse shivers against him convulsively, teeth chattering, even in his near-unconscious state. Even if Walt desists at this point, the boy may still die, unable to cope or recoup from the volemic loss. How far he’s taken Jesse toward the end, he can’t say for sure, but he’s damned determined to fight against the damage done—to drive it backwards—though he has no idea yet as to how to manage that. 

With the breakneck speed of the undead, he wraps the boy’s ripped and loosened clothing back around him, and with his hunger only partially sated, he gathers him into his arms and steals back out into the night, in hope of righting his wrongs.


End file.
